


what a weary way we fall, we're as old as emeralds

by gizamalukesgrotto



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Rape, Spoilers, final chapter, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21999634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gizamalukesgrotto/pseuds/gizamalukesgrotto
Summary: Bahamut of The Six spoke ten years ago of the prophecy. It is as ancient as the sky, written before the first Protozoa felt the first rays of the sun that warmed the first slivers of the earth. Nothing can change their fate - not if he behaves, not if he fights.So Ignis breaks.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	what a weary way we fall, we're as old as emeralds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hornybraincell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornybraincell/gifts).



  
  
Darkness has swallowed Eos for nigh on a decade. Humans have learned to adapt; those who haven’t, did not last. 

Ignis has learned to adapt. It is what he does. It is what he was born to do. 

There is no concept of time in the dark. Only what the clock tells him, them, anyone. Numbers on a screen dictate the passage of the hours, days, months, years. 

Ten. Ten years. 

He knew this. 

He knew this before anyone. 

He knew this before Noctis himself. 

Ignis was the first. The prophecy had laid across him like a swift slap to the face, smiting him and leaving him reeling more than from the very sight he sacrificed that night for him. For Noctis. 

It is, perhaps, that very reason that has driven Ignis to the precipice where he stands now, above Noctis, 

Noctis,

“Noctis. Noctis. Noctis. Noctis.”

His lips and tongue and teeth shape the name over and over again, the same name he’s parroted in his mind for thirty-some-odd years, except this time they layer and lilt crookedly into a cacophony ; until it doesn’t sound like a name at all, a word at all, a thing at all. It has never existed. It does not exist. 

“Ignis— please.”

Noctis’ voice is tight in his throat. Ignis feels the pulse of it quicken beneath his hand where he curls his fingers and squeezes, again. 

“Oh, Noctis.”

Ignis starts to move. He doesn’t remember how long he’s been holding himself within Noctis like this. All he remembers is telling the newly returned king to meet him at the hunters outpost several miles north of the diner, and now they're here. 

The shack rests on a plateau where a camp haven used to sit. Now it is merely a tumor in the bleak landscape, its magick runes that once gleamed in the night and warded off daemons now a hollow echo of its old glory. It thrums beneath their bodies. Ignis feels it. Noctis cannot. Few can. 

Ignis has learned in this years how to hear the world as it is: rotten, dying, doomed, whimpering like a child crying, groaning like the elderly disintegrating, all life and all death and all in between the sky and the earth. Ignis has learned to hear it all. 

But he does not hear Noctis when he calls his name again. “Ignis—“

Noct feels — warm. Tight. Good. If Ignis believed in heaven, he’d say it feels heavenly. But there is no heaven. There is no hell. There is only the long stretch in between, only the unknown , only this - Noctis, the warmest thing he’s felt in ten years. 

“You took this from me,” Ignis chides, thrusting deeper. His hand does not stay from Noctis’ throat; his body does not heed to the struggles of the king beneath him. “You took it all and kept me waiting.”

“You—knew. You knew.”

“Did you and Bahamut have a proper catching up in the crystal? Good. You’re up to speed, then.” And for good measure Ignis picks up his, fucking into Noctis’ ass harder. The daggers Ignis speared through Noctis’ palms keep him rooted to the floor, and the shack he rapes him in reeks of iron and fills Ignis’ lungs as he breathes , heavy and labored with his thrusts. 

No matter how many times he pushes in, he finds himself getting no closer to his goal. 

The advisor releases Noctis’ throat, exasperated. Over the sound of His Highness’ pathetic choking and desperate gasps for air, Ignis tries another angle. 

But all he gets is the same warm friction that just isn’t enough. 

“You’ll stay here until I’m finished,” Ignis demands, though it’s unnecessary. Even if Noctis weren’t crucified to the floor, the sedatives Ignis slipped into his Welcome Home dinner do the job well enough. He won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. 

Noctis feels taut and unmoving below him, and every thrust Ignis pushes in is met with nothing in return. It is nothing like his Noctis. This is nothing like how they would make love ten years ago, seamless and knowing and full of everything time has since severed. 

Ignis lifts up Noctis’ good leg and hoists it over his shoulder. He tries slower thrusts. Tries rolling his hips a bit. And then a sound bubbles from Noctis’ throat that could be construed as a moan. 

“That’s it, isn’t it,” Ignis purrs, thrusting just like that again. He feels Noctis’ blood stain his hands as he braces himself on the wooden floor. Noctis’ breath hitches and his limp cock between them twitches. Ignis reaches down to give it a few strokes slicked by Noctis’ own blood until it reaches some pathetic charade of arousal, and he lets it go. 

It’s enough to keep him moving. It’s enough to get him close. 

“Ignis — why?”

All Ignis knows is the black venom of darkness that has infected him in these long years , toiling in the dark , finding solace in the starscourge when waiting got too much to bear and he broke, shattered, to a man that knows only night. 

He has waited so long for his king, who fell then to rise now, only to fall again tomorrow at the broken throne of Insomnia. It’s all a joke at this point, a cosmic tragedy Ignis feels unfit to play the loyal role of any longer. Noctis deserves better than him. Ignis, on his knees before him, proves it with every spear of his cock into the risen king’s unwilling hole. 

“I am not the one,” Ignis pleads, almost. “I am not worthy. Noctis, my king, I have failed you. And for that, I loathe us both. “

The confession brings forth his climax, and Ignis spills deep into Noct with a bruising kiss against lips that do not open. 

Bahamut of The Six spoke ten years ago of the prophecy. It was as ancient as the sky, written before the first Protozoa felt the first rays of the sun that warmed the first slivers of the earth. Nothing can change their fate - not if he behaves, not if he fights. 

So Ignis breaks. 

“Your highness,” Ignis says, pulling out to bring his spend onto the dusty floor of the shack. He stands , wobbly, and buttons his pants he did not bother to remove before this ritual began. With a wave of his gloved hand, the daggers disintegrate into the air from their anchored home in Noctis’ palms. He hears the man curl in on himself against the floor, shuddering in pain. Above the fallen, risen, and now fallen king, Ignis compels him to rise once more for one last, grand leap of faith. This time there will be nothing left to catch him. 

“It is time. You must go, and bring light back to the world.”

Ignis turns to leave. Outside the shack, it’s cold and windy, and dust stirs up from the dry earth that has not seen rain in a decade. When Ignis goes to wipe it from his face, his hand is wet. 

And so Ignis weeps for his king, whose phoenix wings he so cut down with his own hands just to prove he could do something, anything, that was not assigned of him; a feat that even the prophecies written before the sun could never foretell.   
  
  



End file.
